Like this:

I’m reading this upscale magazine. Upscale. What’s that supposed to mean? Anyway, I’m reading this magazine that’s supposed to be higher-end writing and I find this hideous, painfully long piece of prose about ankles, ankles in boots and I stopped reading, stunned, thinking, “That can’t be what they want.” They’re so reserved, conservative, they say upscale but maybe that’s underlying. Looks to me like someone knew someone who published their work, you know, slid it in under the radar. Maybe this would be the time to submit something and they’ll even publish me! Ha! I had something written I thought too risqué but who knows.

What I wanted to say:

My Father is dying, Dad, wasting away. At 125 he’s developed so much the doctors can’t keep track. No he’s not 125 years old but down to 125 pounds, not that he was a huge man to begin with, still he weighed more than that.

He’d be on my unit if I were still in medical, Skilled Nursing, in a family of multiple train wrecks so he wouldn’t be alone. After writing these few words he might be down to 100, maybe less. We stopped getting along a while ago; he couldn’t make me anymore yet I thought, “What will I do when you’re not here for me to be mad at?”

Well, not really mad at better to say just taken aback by.

There can never be another, you’re one who’s unique, there’ll never be another you. That song you taught couples to sing at encounter meetings so much like AA, to convince them they should stay married and for what? They found they don’t like each other anyway and they know without a doubt, “I’ll never find another you. Maybe one of us ought move out. Shouldn’t have found you in the first place – ha, a mutual feeling setting one free. We, together, don’t want to find another you, each other, what are you doing here with me?” Interesting concept.

But this is nothing like reading about ankles in boots.

Getting back on track. So, who will it be to cause me to be taken aback? Who will others use to be better than whom I portray? I’m a lot like him you see. If he were a girl he’d look like me. It’s been a long hard road this life we’ve had and I can’t get distance enough between us but I know I’ll never come across someone like you in the most euphemistic way. If we weren’t so alike I’d be free but I’ll never find another you because that’s me.

I never knew someone who hated a parent, not personally, not firsthand. Always examining I looked inside myself and knew I’d never hated, knowledge is so unfair, I could be surprised and hurt but not for one second was love ever gone or just not there, nor for less than a second. “You might not have made it”, I’d thought, “now that you’ve passed”. Of course you would have. With the design quite grand I crossed the Plain of Lethe and drank deep from Mnemosyne. I knew I accepted the overall design. It’s just something I’d do. I could remember even being born. I was sent back by something greater than us both, a creator of a masterful plan.

It wasn’t necessary I be appeared to, no manifestation necessary for a secret to be revealed. Nothing mystical really but everyday, it had always been clear though my thought following after was “how do I tell him” all the things I always understood. “He’s not here anymore, or…” Imagination being what it is I put my head on your shoulder and said, “We’re ok, you and me, you know we really are, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when your time breathed its last.” No retrospect would inspire nor dictate another path. I am whom I am you see that I know, and of that truth I will never let go.

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